A Most Unexpected Gift
by skrewtkeeper
Summary: Dumbledore receives a birthday present for his sixtieth birthday and has no clue who it could be from. Join him as he attempts to figure it out! MMAD. Present for Sylvadragon. And thanks to PreconceivedNotions for being my beta.


_A/N: The title of this story is two-fold. First, it's for the fic (well...duh), and secondly, it's a birthday present for Sylvadragon. "A Most Unexpected Gift" indeed! :D Also, one of these: =~*~= represents a lapse of time and a horizontal line represents a complete change in POV. Thanks go out to PreconceivedNotions for agreeing to beta this story for me, and lastly, to the rest of you out there, enjoy the 'unexpected' MMADness!_

A Most Unexpected Gift

They were absolutely exquisite…there was no other word for them…

Albus Dumbledore sat in his rooms; oblivious to the late hour as he held his most priceless birthday gift in his old, calloused hands. He was not one to blatantly marvel over one simple thing for very long, but this… _this_ was the most brilliant exception his eyes had ever beheld. Such care! Such effort! All for him!

Who on earth would spend so much time on him?

There was Armando, of course, who he had grown rather close to over the last few years after his appointment to Deputy Headmaster. Armando was going to retire rather soon, and it would make sense that he would spend so much time getting these made, but… wouldn't it have been far more prudent for _Albus_ to give him a worthy retirement gift? This obviously was not the work of knowing one for a few years; this spoke of at least a decade, perhaps more. Someone who _truly_ cared about him…

There was Professor Kettleburn, who _had_ known him for far more than a decade, but still—they were both acquaintances at best and Dumbledore highly doubted he had casually mentioned to the man that he had a love for this particular article of clothing. No, it definitely was _not_ the Care of Magical Creatures professor. They hardly spoke at all save for the occasional run-in.

But who else _was_ there? He had known Horace for about the same length of time, but it was doubtful (_immeasurably_ doubtful) that he would spend so much time on someone else. It wasn't to discredit his character; Dumbledore just knew that spending time on others just wasn't Horace's way, and that was perfectly alright. He was a Potions Master and Albus had always accepted that being in a chamber with at least ten different potions brewing at once caused one to become rather stuffy. Not thoughtless, but stuffy.

No matter, no matter. If not from him, who else? It could be an admirer…

Albus stoppered the thought dead in its tracks; much like a professor would quickly Banish a potion about to explode. No. _No_. It couldn't possibly be! Why, he hadn't so much dated a woman in at least three years! The press should believe by now that he had given up on ever marrying as he had just turned sixty tonight.

But that would explain the lack of a name.

It was curious, he reflected, that something so personally (so beautifully!) made wouldn't at least warrant the name of the maker. Such marvelous work _deserved_ recognition, but this way, whoever had made such a remarkable gift would never know of his reaction (given in the dead of night this way, how preposterous!), would never know of his joy, would never know just how often he intended to use them. It was most bizarre. Surely _someone_ must know who spent so much time. Dumbledore could hardly imagine something so elaborately knitted could ever remain a secret for long…and the bright color…they were such a siren to the eye… simply marvelous.

He ran his fingers over them in a hesitant, cautious way, as though afraid his fingertips would stain their brilliance, but they were beautifully wrought, and magic was woven lovingly within along the way…lovingly? He paused, considering the implications of something even more marvelous than the socks themselves. If it were truly someone who_ loved_ him, well, that made the lack of a name even more ridiculous, especially if it were an admirer from afar. What could knowing the truth of their creation cause? He certainly was no young man, but if the giver were _truly_ ashamed, there would be no gift at all. Very strange.

They wouldn't match _anything_. Whoever this was knew him extremely well. They were shockingly hot pink and their color slowly faded into green brighter than any he had ever seen. Such magical yarn! He had never before glimpsed such a wondrous design! Also woven into their color was many whispered spells from a source he could not name, but had glimpsed many times in his life; it was so familiar, it was mind-boggling. Who on earth were these from?! There was a spell to keep them looking new for as long as the spell held (and it was _very_ powerful. He'd be able to keep these socks for at least a decade provided his feet didn't grow. He chuckled warmly at the thought), and there was a spell that would keep them very soft, another feature most socks didn't carry (and if they did, they were _very_ expensive, he had checked). There was another spell he could not yet identify; it was buried beneath the Renewable spell and the Softy spell—something he was very curious to discover.

Being unable to take it any longer, Dumbledore whipped off his boots quickly and threw his old pair of magenta socks to the floor. He pulled on his new pink-and-green-and-utterly-revolting-and-yet-entirely-perfect pair and was instantly surrounded by a cocoon of warmth that eclipsed both feet. Ahh, a warming charm and a _very_ good one at that. Again, the sense of familiarity niggled against the edge of his brain, but he swatted it away; there was far too much to enjoy here than to worry about who had made them now. He had discovered yet one more spell (any more and he was sure the socks wouldn't have held together), and that spell alone was enough to make him very much desire embracing whoever had made them for they _truly_ knew him now: there was a spell of eternal spotlessness, suited specifically to who wore them first. He could wear them _every day_ if he wished and they'd never smell and would never get dirty. He knew many a mother would appreciate such a spell, but magic had many imperfections. Not many could perform such magic; it was very advanced, very complicated, and narrowed his window of choices even further. Just _who on earth_ deigned to make such a creation for someone who was not himself?!

But before Albus could continue his train of thought, he was fast asleep in his plushy recliner, eased to the position by very warm socks and the care someone had put into them…

The next morning, Albus awoke very slowly, keenly aware of his feet at the perfect temperature; they'd never sweat in these—they'd automatically adjust according to the wearer's temperature. That would mean firstly, the warming charm was a far more extensive one than he had previously realized, and secondly, it _had_ to be someone close to him, who was in his presence far more frequently than infrequently. His list of anonymous admirers had got to go; no, this had to be someone within the confines of the castle.

Pleased he had discovered this much so far, Albus happily got out of his pink plushy armchair (not feeling sore at all) and meandered into his bedroom to change his clothes. The socks may never smell, but his wizard robes were not so lucky. They still needed to be cleaned just like everything else. Choosing a set of dark purple robes with a hat inlaid with tiny silver stars (that really looked like sparkles, he grinned), Albus changed and made his way into the staff room. It was possible the other professors would have an idea about his mysterious gift…

"For land's sake, Albus! Your hair looks a fright!" Professor Aberdeen rebuked from her corner of the room at his entrance, grading Arithmacy essays and sipping her Earl Gray tea.

Albus wandered over to her, a smile on his lips despite her obvious distaste. It really didn't matter what you did to yourself; short yet stern Professor Aberdeen never backed down from telling exactly what she thought, even if it wasn't the nicest of things. "Ah, Professor. You're looking well yourself. I fell asleep last night in my chair, so naturally that would explain my hair's current state of disarray." He knew he hadn't combed it before he left, hoping to quickly catch the other professors before breakfast who could give him a clue about his unexpected gift. Almost lazily, Albus withdrew his wand and set his hair and beard to rights without uttering a word.

Her dark eyes scrutinized him after the change. "I say, that looks at least ten times better! Though you still could do with new robes—sets like those have been obsolete since the year of—"

"Charmed, my dear, charmed as I always am to hear your knowledge about fashion and how I obliviously break all the rules of it, I have something else to discuss with you…"

Abby stopped her grading and looked up to him where he sat beside her, suddenly interested. "Really? Perhaps some gossip abrewing near those chambers of yours that you have overheard? That would certainly explain why you fell asleep in your easychair! Such nonsense those adolescents discuss. Why, when I was their age, I—"

Dumbledore smiled. "Pace yourself, Abby. As I was about to say, I received a most mysterious birthday gift last night, and I was wondering if you could give me a clue or two about the benefactor..?"

Professor Aberdeen frowned for a moment, her gray brows nearly fusing together in thought. "If you insist Albus, but if you require my services, I must request the gift in question…"

Proudly, Dumbledore removed his left boot and sock and handed it to her. Professor Aberdeen took the nethermost corner and held it a great length from her face. "I daresay it would not have been necessary if it were a _sock_," she intoned disgustedly. "You could have continued to wear at least while I performed the spells… perhaps I should have been more clear…"

Albus chuckled. "I assure you, Abby, that these socks will not smell bad. I have checked them myself—"

"How extraordinary, Professor, and how exactly do you know how you smell?" she inquired, cautiously bringing the sock closer to her face to gather a whiff.

"Why, don't we all know when we need a bath?" Albus laughed as Professor Aberdeen finally agreed them to smell 'satisfactory' which was as close to a compliment as he could get.

Abby wrinkled her nose. "Such a disgusting color choice. I myself would've used something far less gaudy. Perhaps a soft yellow, a light blue… nothing so outlandish."

"Ah, I myself find them unique, a treasure to behold! Wouldn't you agree, Professor?"

Abby appeared not to have heard him as she withdrew her wand and began her attempt of pulling apart the fabric of the charms. It alternatively flashed red, gold, and green but no other indications of the giver were obvious. "It appears," the professor said after a long moment, "that whoever spelled these socks must have known you would come to me. There is a physical block _here_," she pointed at the symbols wafting before her, "and it prevents me from uncovering the identity of the caster. Such nonsense over a simple pair of socks! Why, in my day, it was Gringotts _vaults_ protected by this sort of magic alone, but of course the block would be between the wall and the witch or wizard attempting a break-in. Now I'm afraid they use more rudimentary protection, such as—"

Professor Aberdeen's voice washed over him as Albus replaced his extraordinary sock back on his foot. He began to wonder again who had gone through such trouble to give him socks if they weren't even going to tell him who it was. It wasn't that they hadn't left a note any more… if there truly _were_ a block (yet another feat of magic to most magical folk), it seemed most ominous. What if these socks eventually burned a hole through his feet with the comforting warmth? What if his feet merely disappeared? Were they cursed? Albus eyed his boot-clad feet warily, but could find no other answer. If he truly didn't know, it would be far safer to remove them and hide them away in his drawers for at least a month… just to see if they blew up or something. He couldn't be led into a sense of false security, and even with the recent fall of Grindelwald, one couldn't be too careful.

Sighing heavily and bidding Professor Aberdeen a good morning, Albus slowly made his way back to his rooms to remove his wonderful socks and replace them with something far less amazing. He never thought he'd be disheartened to don a pair of rainbow socks, but without the ones that were so reassuringly warm and bright, he feared he may never be happy again.

* * *

"Have you seen Professor Dumbledore? He doesn't look well. I've _never_ seen him look that way…"

"Yeah, you see him up there? Poor man looks like Christmas was cancelled."

"It's so sad. I've never seen him look _sad_ before!"

Such were the words Minerva McGonagall heard as she made her way to the Gryffindor table. At once, her gaze flew to the man in question, and she was startled to see it for herself. It was clear Professor Dumbledore looked most upset. He moodily picked at his food a few minutes before he seemingly bid his fellow professors a good morning and strolled out the door. Minerva felt an inexplicable urge to go after him, but something held her back… if he had discovered she had made him those socks… that would explain his abrupt change of mood. But why sad? Why would he choose to be sad? Did he realize she loved him and he couldn't ever love her back in the same way? That was what she most feared, but he really looked far worse for wear than that. He wouldn't look outright sad for _that_, now would he?

"Minerva, stop glancing up there. You're going to make Headmaster Dippet think something's wrong." The calm rebuke from her best friend Poppy Pomfrey gave her the resolve to sit down at the table across from her friend and cease her worried glances. But Minerva picked at her food just as she had seen Dumbledore do.

After a few minutes of silence, Poppy bravely ventured, "Minerva, what's the matter?"

Inhaling sharply at the sudden rush of emotion, she grated out in an acceptably clipped tone, "Nothing."

"Minerva, please," Poppy said softly, placing her hand on top of Minerva's, "please tell me what's bothering you."

She wrenched her hand away, so touched it made her want to vomit. "There is nothing to tell Poppy," she intoned furiously, hoping her tone would hold the despicable tears at bay. "Kindly leave your nose out of this for once."

Poppy visibly flinched and returned to her food without saying anything else. Minerva mentally kicked herself. The world didn't revolve around her and her annoying condition for her Transfiguration professor. "Poppy, I'm sorry," she relented with deep shame. "I shouldn't have snapped at you, but I—I'll tell you later, alright? I need to come to terms with it myself first…"

Poppy nodded in quick understanding, never judging her friend for anything less. "I understand. I'll wait. Just whenever you're ready…"

"_Definitely_ not here," Minerva muttered dangerously, eying Poppy harshly as if she dared go against her word. Suddenly picking up on the subject, Poppy grinned beautifully at her.

"I know, Minerva. Just… it's just you have no idea how it looks on the sidelines—"

"Utterly ridiculous I'd imagine," Minerva spat out in disgust.

"No, you've really no idea. It is _incredibly_ sweet, and honestly, if I had the courage you have, I would've done the same thing—"

Minerva snorted and furiously rubbed her forehead. "Poppy, you overestimate my courage… it… it failed me last night."

"Oh?" she questioned in interest. "Perhaps we should wait until after class to continue this discussion. I would be glad to hear what you're having trouble telling me."

"Well, we've already started," Minerva groaned bitterly. "How about by the lake? I'm just about finished here and class isn't for another hour or so."

Poppy eyed Minerva's plate with great distaste. "Now, Minerva, you really should eat _something_…"

"I'm. Not. Hungry." She ground out forcefully in reply, opting to glare at Poppy again.

"Just eat a bit of toast then," Poppy suggested easily, still working on her bacon and eggs. "You're always going to feel worse on an empty stomach, you mark my words."

"You're not my bloody mother," Minerva snarled as she snatched a piece of toast and began fiercely buttering it.

Poppy snickered. "And thank Merlin above for that. I doubt I'd have the patience…"

"Poppy, you're being ridiculous," Minerva said between mouthfuls of toast. Poppy grinned with unfound glee at her returned appetite. "We both know your patience is impeccable."

"Perhaps for you, love, but for the younglings—" She allowed that to die on the wind, and Minerva choked back a laugh.

With a smile, she said, "Now how on earth are you going to be a Healer if you can't stand children?"

"I haven't decided yet. Obviously get the hell away from Hogwarts and poor Madam Wortsky who's going to either die off or retire any minute; someone else can take her place… maybe someone else from our year. Who knows?"

Grinning, the two finished their breakfast, but as they stepped outside, Minerva remembered why she had felt so full of despair before breakfast began.

Poppy watched the grin fall right off her face. "Now love, if it's going to be bad news, you needn't sport such a _deep_ frown; it causes wrinkles you know."

Minerva nodded mutely and set off for a hedge near the entrance doors; there was a neat little hidden alcove there where most students did their snogging, but it was much too early for that sort to be up and about. They were more the type to slide into class with literally five seconds to spare. Minerva would never understand them…

Sitting side-by-side on the grass, Minerva said, "I can't take any chances," before extracting her wand and placing a bubble-head charm over the two of them. It wasn't as effective as a Privacy Ward as it would only muffle their words instead of replacing them entirely, but it would do. She was much too drained from yesterday to do overly complex spells…

After a few seconds of silence, Poppy turned to her and asked again with concern, "What it is, love? You normally have such a mighty appetite in the morning and then today something makes it almost completely disappear…what happened?"

Minerva cursed herself for being so emotional; tears gathered in her eyes at both her friend's obvious worry and the problem she was about to divulge. She didn't let them fall however; she had far more class than that.

"I…you saw those ghastly socks I was knitting—"

"And quite well too," Poppy agreed. "Were you aiming to free an elf? I think all the ones here are free already…"

"No," Minerva said firmly. "Poppy I do appreciate the compliments, but I need to say all of this once without any interruptions." At Poppy's nod, she took a deep breath. "I also put quite a few charms on those ugly things, like to keep them soft, new, warm...spells like that. That's why I've done a bubble-head charm instead of something more advanced. I'm _exhausted_ Poppy, and I'm afraid all my work has gone to waste…"

"I'm sorry, but how exactly has it gone to waste? You've obviously created something very useful despite the obvious color discrepancy—"

"I made them for Professor Dumbledore."

Poppy's eyes widened. "_Oh_," she breathed.

"Yes," Minerva sighed heavily, giving in to the despair once more. "Obviously, he's figured it out…"

But Poppy looked oddly thoughtful. "Are you sure? Wouldn't he have sought you out to tell you he's much too old or you're much too young?"

Minerva was rubbing her eyes again, furiously losing the battle against her tears. "I don't _know_, Poppy," she moaned in a most disgustedly pitiful way. "Maybe he's…maybe he's much too scandalized to come to me. Perhaps it would only be right…if I…if I were to go to him and…and apologize."

Poppy snorted softly. "Apologize for giving a gift we both know he'll love? Minerva, that's silly! You can't be sure his sadness this morning had anything to do with his gift… for all we know, they could've discontinued his favorite candy. You know how upset he was when his singing ornaments at Christmas didn't sing like advertised…"

"Yes, but he wasn't outright _sad_, Poppy," Minerva moaned again, angry with herself. "I've _never_ seen him look that way, and I've known him for over eleven years—"

"Just like I said, love: please don't jump to conclusions. You're only going to make yourself even more miserable. If it truly were the socks, wouldn't he have approached you at breakfast?"

"—perhaps he didn't see me come in and went looking—?"

"Well," Poppy paused, waiting for another idea to come to her, "—why isn't he out here then? He'd have figured out by now where you went."

"True," Minerva said in a small voice so unlike her own.

"There now, he _wasn't_ looking for you."

Minerva rubbed the bridge of her nose. "But surely you _would_ look for someone if that were your reaction. What if he's upset he _must_ turn me down because he harbors feelings in return?"

Poppy smiled encouragingly at her and nodded. "He's probably going to avoid you from now on, but I'd say that—"

"Poppy, you're brilliant!" Minerva shrieked, breaking her temporary barrier with her voice and fiercely embracing her best friend. Well, if that wasn't the explanation then what was?

One long day of classes later, Minerva was as confused as before. Professor Dumbledore made no obvious attempt to avoid her; in fact, he had called on her three separate times during Transfiguration and had made a point to tell her the time of their next meeting for her exclusive, extra lesson with him. Now she was even more baffled and her extra class with him was in less than an hour.

Minerva was sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room during her last free period of the day, her eyes furiously tracing back and forth in _101 Defense Techniques You Should Know_, but to the trained eye, she was really reading the same two pages over and over; she never turned it once.

"Minerva, you're going to wear your eyes out reading so fast like that," Poppy chided lightly. Minerva only gave her a murderous look before resuming her 'reading'.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Poppy."

Poppy soon discovered her friend's clandestine affair with her book. "Indeed, you're not reading at all." Abruptly, Poppy snatched the book from Minerva's grasp and sent it sailing out the open window with her wand.

"Return my book to me at once!" Minerva roared, looking fit to tackle Poppy to the ground.

"Not until you tell me what it was you were reading!" Poppy sent back, laughing as she continued to take steps backwards from an overloaded Minerva.

"Obviously Defense tactics—material that we all should have read already—RETURN IT TO ME!"

"Give me the _words_, you walking library! You weren't reading a thing!" Without warning, Minerva tackled her to the ground, knocking the wand out of her hand.

Poppy was still laughing uncontrollably on the ground as Minerva used her own wand and magically retrieved her falling, stolen book.

Glaring furiously, Minerva snarled, "Oh stuff it Poppy. I daresay _you've_ never read this…we have our N.E.W.T.s in three months!"

"As of yet…no," Poppy said breathlessly from her now seated position on the floor, still recovering. "What's in the book anyways?" She asked innocently.

"I already told you," Minerva said, rolling her eyes. "_Defense tactics_."

"No," Poppy said, shaking her head. "What have you learned? What's in it that I need to know if I haven't read it yet?"

"Well, I—"

Bingo.

"Minerva, you haven't turned a page in over fifteen minutes. I wouldn't have noticed as I was writing my Astronomy essay, but when I didn't hear a page turn, I thought I would watch you. I did. You never turned one. You appear as though you are furiously reading, but you're not."

After a brief pause and retaining her dignity, "Like I said… _Stuff it, Poppy._"

Poppy merely grinned at her. "I'm sure it will be alright, Minerva. Goodness, I've never seen _you_ in such a nervous wreck before… not even during our O.W.L.s fifth year."

"Well of course," Minerva retorted bitterly. "There's nothing to fear when you know the material…when you know what's coming, it's quite a cinch indeed. There's no need to worry."

Poppy stood and padded over to her friend seated at the couch, still looking as though she were reading the same two random pages over and over again. "It's just like that," Poppy said softly touching her shoulder. "There's no need to worry, Minerva. Just act as you normally do and everything will be alright. I'm sure if he knew you had given him those socks he would've at least thanked you personally for them… It'll be fine, love. Just go to the lesson and act as though nothing's wrong. He seems to believe nothing about you is."

"How can you be so sure?" Minerva whispered, discarding her heavy book in her lap in favor of fingering her friend's hand in return; finding the strength that had drained from her.

"Trust me Minerva," she replied just as softly, _"Trust me."_

It was dark then—the shadows danced along the walls as she exited her Common Room, using a series of secret portrait holes to find no one on her way, and when no one appeared despite the noise of ubiquitous students, she breathed a sigh of relief. She was much too heady with excitement, at learning that tonight—_tonight_ might mean she could finally tell the old man of her love if he hadn't gathered it himself. Provided he accepted her. Provided he loved her in return. Provided he…

_No more_, she chided to herself, just short of the Transfiguration classroom where their lesson was to resume from the week prior. They were _so close_ to working on Animagus transformation; she would love to learn how it was done, but really, the intoxication of the idea wasn't in transforming at all, but to be with the man for a lot longer than originally planned, as loath as she was to admit that. Not that anyone other than Poppy was going to ask. It was after all, quite _acceptable_ she was looking into spending a little more time at the school. All he had to do was ask, and should he bring up the socks in the meantime, well… there was no way she could lie to him.

Feeling far more reassured than only thirty minutes ago, Minerva confidently knocked upon the door as she always had (three strikes, no more), but no answer beckoned her forth.

_Odd_, she mused. Raising her hand to knock again, the door suddenly opened. Shocked, she jumped a little, mouth hanging open.

"I—I'm sorry sir; am I too early?" Of course, it was only proper to be polite, but seeing him had stirred those keen feelings of concern from earlier in the day. The poor man looked rather beaten to the bone. He was dazzling as always; his long auburn hair and beard reminding her of the sun that had now set, his habitual hat perched atop his head… but some grievous worry had wormed its way into his once-beautiful eyes, making them appear less bright than was customary.

"No no," his voice was warm despite his chilled demeanor. Minerva relaxed infinitesimally, "you are right on time as always, my dear, do come in. Punctuality is a trait I'd surely wish to pick up on." He looked at her over his half-moon spectacles with a small smile on his face as he gestured her inside and shut the door behind them.

She nodded, glad for the subject change. "Yes, it commands a certain respect from people I think…"

"Ah, bright as always, Miss McGonagall. If I were too respectful, however, I fear no student would see fit to see me; think me too busy with certain other 'important' affairs such as reading all of these piles of books I've received this week."

"Books, sir?" she inquired, always interested at reading those ancient tomes of his. She had borrowed a few on occasion.

He nodded patiently without sharing the enthusiasm. "Yes, my dear. You see, my birthday was an evening past and I received countless books by owl…but no other gifts worthy of note."

She froze. _No other—_? Had he received her gift at all? "That's _all?!_" She choked out in surprise, suddenly mortified by her slip of tongue. "I'm sorry, sir. I just…I would love to receive dozens of books on my birthday."

"Of course, Miss McGonagall," he bowed to her slightly before eying her strangely for a split second, as if he knew that was not the real cause of her outburst. A second later the omniscient look in his gaze had disappeared. "Most unfortunate for me, however; a lot of the books I've received are on subjects I do not wish to pursue—" at this he waggled his eyebrows suggestively before he said, "I apologize, but I simply do not wish to know how goats come to be! Courtesy of my brother Aberforth, of course, as he thought it would be an instructive read to better understand what he does with his free time…" Dumbledore visibly shuddered and Minerva chortled in spite of her heartbreak. Obviously, those socks just weren't _good enough_. He probably had a whole chest of them and hers were simply another pair.

The professor eyed her in that peculiar way once more, as if he knew very well her laughter was only half-hearted before he said, "On with the lesson, Minerva?" At her brief nod, he waved his wand and all tables and chairs inhibiting their movement vanished into thin air.

They practiced transfiguration spells on one another throughout the entire duration. Near the end of the lesson, Dumbledore demonstrated wordlessly changing his left arm into a wing and encouraged Minerva to do the same. "Of course, this is not the same as an Animagi transformation, which requires you direct the magic from within yourself to outside yourself—an Animagi transformation is far more natural, an expression of yourself. If you understand that you are both part of an animal and an animal a part of you, it will be far easier to accomplish."

"But," Minerva began, feathers protruding out of her arm but with no other indication she was doing it correctly, "how am I to _know_ what animal Form is supposed to claim me? Obviously it is not a bird—"

Dumbledore chuckled. "I think not, Minerva. Perhaps I should perform something more difficult as I carry the Form of the bird, expressed most prominently as a Phoenix." At his words, he transformed before her, but instead of having the red plumage of his familiar Fawkes…

"You're _golden_," Minerva breathed in awe. "I never believed—I mean, a lot of my yearmates and I have suspected but never believed that you too—"

Dumbledore reassumed his human appearance with a quiet _pop_ and said quickly, "Yes, a Magic Form; most unusual. It is highly uncommon for a person to have the Form of a magical creature, though I doubtless imagine it is far more probable than once believed, especially if one has talent in the area before pursuing the art of Transformation," he acknowledged, nodding to her slightly. Minerva felt her cheeks color and looked at her shoes.

"I know it may feel entirely unreachable at the moment, my dear," Dumbledore murmured, stepping closer to her and tentatively placing a hand on her shoulder. It burned through her robes. Didn't he realize how warm he was? "But you have far greater talent than you can scarcely imagine. The ease at which your arm sprouted into feathers at all is _immensely_ encouraging, and suggestive of a great ease you will find once you do begin your training." He stepped away, and Minerva began to breathe again, frightened he would discover why she was so breathless.

"A little known fact in the Wizarding World," he called, bringing her attention back to the front of the room and away from the shine of her shoes. "—an animal Form claims each one of us at birth, should we desire to transform at a later time, when our magic has matured with us. You needn't worry about the question of _what_ Form, but rather _how_ to bring it to fruit. It is not discovered accidentally as universally believed; a few things must occur first before a Transformation can even become feasible…"

"Excuse me, Professor," Minerva interrupted, "but what are those things exactly? Have I much yet to do, or—?"

"Ah!" Dumbledore exclaimed with a smile. "The first thing one requires when seeking a Transformation is tutoring by someone deemed a professional," he bowed slightly to her again before chuckling. "Well, as professional as I can claim to be," he concluded gravely, winking at her.

Minerva giggled. "Of _course_ you are professional, Professor."

Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I am glad to hear it, my dear, but perhaps…perhaps I am not so all the time…"

She frowned. "What do you mean, sir?"

"Take this morning for example," he began, all thoughts of ending their lesson apparently forgotten. "I was most upset by something most would say was silly, but it was something _very_ important to me, Minerva. Professor Aberdeen has straightened me out, however, telling me how ridiculous I was being—I have since sobered for the sake of my students out _there_," he gestured with a wave of his hand. "But I'm afraid I cannot keep this concealed from you. It does trouble me so and I've been brooding over it all evening."

She lost control of her breathing, and abruptly could breathe no more. "What—What is it, sir?" she nearly whispered.

The professor looked at her, with that curious careworn look in his eye and sighed heavily as though in regret. "I received the most spectacular gift for my birthday!" he informed with such painstaking liveliness it cut her to the core. "But I'm afraid I must return it or otherwise keep away from it, as it didn't have a name—I suspect it is dangerous. Such a shame, so much work was once put into making them, I can hardly—"

He broke off in astonishment as he took in Minerva's appearance. She was suddenly howling with laughter. "I—I am sorry Professor, but—" her response was thwarted by another round of laughter.

"I concur, I _was_ being silly," Dumbledore agreed reasonably, but still looking a bit put out, "but this is a very important matter to me. I was hoping you'd treat it with more respect than simply this."

Her laughter died at once. "Professor, your gift is harmless."

He frowned, fingering his beard again. "How can it be so? And for you to tell me this… do you know the giver, perhaps?"

Minerva raised one eyebrow in a challenging way; surely he had figured that out by now…? "Yes, I do and it is _not_ dangerous. I'm confused why you would even believe it to be so. Why would someone place so many helpful charms on something only to make it dangerous to use?"

"Why the cloak of invisibility of course!" he countered with excitement. "If I am not suspicious of the charms placed and in the intention of the gift, then I will use it only to find my feet disappeared by tomorrow morning! And to not be certain from where it has come, well… how can I be certain the gift is as harmless as you claim?"

"Professor, I made you those socks."

His eyes widened in surprise nonetheless. Perhaps he was curiously unaware after all. "How extraordinary, with two colors that absolutely do not match _anything_ at all. It appears something you would believe to be 'gaudy' for lack of a better term. It must have been torturous to knit them…"

Minerva nodded quickly. "Believe me, Professor, it was—"

"—and adding all the spells, thoroughly taxing, which explains why you were unable to create a full bird wing as I had anticipated, knowing the strength and breadth of your magic."

"I—" Shocked by the unexpected praise again, Minerva could say nothing.

"I believe you know where this is going, Minerva," Professor Dumbledore pressed. "As relieved as I am that such a marvelous gift is not dangerous, I must know…_Why_. What would prompt such a thoughtful birthday gift? Surely you do not extend the same courtesy to Horace, Abby, or to any others of the staff; I would've heard about it. Everyone else was as surprised as I was when I thought to mention it. _Why_, Minerva?"

Now instead of being breathless, her lungs had vanished altogether. "I—Professor—you—you're going to think me extremely silly…"

Minerva concentrated on the shine of her shoes again when Dumbledore approached her once more and gently took hold of her chin, forcing her to look at him. "_Try me_," he breathed in her ear before kissing her softly on the cheek. "There is no shame in this, save for I am your professor…"

"That is precisely it, sir," she began once she could breathe again. "I was quite certain I'd never see you again—"

"—not even to visit Hogsmeade and buy out all their chocolate? How disgraceful," he admonished in a light, teasing tone.

In spite of her embarrassment (but emboldened by his caring kiss), Minerva snickered. "I made them for you because I was certain I'd never see you again. I knew you liked socks, so I knitted them for you and put a few charms on them on my own. It was the least I could do… if I was going to say goodbye, this had to be quite worth the effort. I didn't feel a card was sufficient."

Dumbledore chuckled. "So explains the lack of one, how clever!" But when Minerva didn't continue, he sobered and encouraged, "A goodbye? Is that all?" Did he look worried?

"No, I—I love you sir. I just felt silly about the entire thing and I've wanted to confide in you _so much_ since it's happened, but I was afraid you wouldn't understand, would perhaps push me away—"

"I am going to push you away, Minerva," he interrupted firmly in a gentle voice, "but not for the reasons you believe. As much as I am intrigued by the idea, and very flattered you should think of me in this way, I am your professor…"

Minerva looked crestfallen anyway, and tears fell from her eyes. Her voice didn't shake however, when she said, "I understand, professor. This won't—this won't _change_ anything will it?" She looked slightly terrified.

"No, my dear," he smiled, bringing his thumbs to her face to brush her tears away. "I shall not be your professor forever, and also you must weigh carefully what I am about to say…I do not love you in the way you need me to or would wish me to. Please consider that should you return here for whatever reason. I implore you to learn more about yourself before you do return; date other people—understand what you _truly_ want; I will not take advantage of you while I do not share your feelings. I am dreadfully sorry."

She nodded again. "Thank you sir," she breathed, kissing him on the cheek in return before she lost the nerve and hurrying out the door.

"No, my dear, thank you," Dumbledore called back. "The socks, truly are a work of art."

She grinned before shutting the door, and alone, Dumbledore fingered his very warm cheek. "Thank you for a most unmatched birthday," he breathed before exiting the room himself and donning the socks he had so missed. He was thankful for the love of one student, brazen and almost foolish enough to put herself on the line like that; maybe, just maybe, he could learn to love her too.


End file.
